


Tokyo AM

by FrostyEmma



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers Family, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Drinking & Talking, Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-02-04 12:02:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18604138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostyEmma/pseuds/FrostyEmma
Summary: “Okay, well, first,” and she held up a finger, as if to prove she could still count, “I’m not sure where I’d buy a wheelbarrow at three in the morning.”“At the wheelbarrow store, Nat.”A frown flitted across her face. “Hadn’t thought of that.”Natasha and Clint. 3 AM. Tokyo.





	Tokyo AM

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this movie fucked me up, so...

Natasha found Clint in neon-lit sidestreet in Roppongi, the body of a businessman-

-assassin?

-yakuza boss?

It didn’t really matter. 

The body of someone lay in a bloody puddle, and maybe she could have stopped Clint, but it had been five years, and all that mattered in that moment was that he was _there_.

Finally.

She paid cash at a Roppongi hotel that asked no questions, because really, if someone started asking about the fauxhawked, sword carrying ninja, what lie would sound even halfway convincing?

_’We’re on our honeymoon.’_

_‘Don’t mind my husband, he’s been watching a lot of anime.’_

_‘We heard there’s a gaming convention in town.’_

\---

Their room faced another street awash in neon pinks and blues and greens, and even at that time of night - so late, it was early - people flowed in and out of what looked like arcades lining the street.

“Pachinko parlors,” Clint said. “Can’t throw a stone in Roppongi without hitting a pachinko parlor.”

She filed that bit of information away. Maybe it would be useful one day. What did they say about old habits, after all?

They died.

Hard.

She raided the mini-fridge, coming up with several little bottles of alcohol in a variety of flavors. She tossed Clint the Bailey’s Irish Cream, kept the Gray’s Peak for herself. 

Clint raised an eyebrow. “Vodka?”

“I was Russian.” She shrugged. “Once upon a time.”

He raised the bottle of Bailey’s. “ _Nostrovia._ ”

It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. “Have I taught you nothing? _Na Zdorovie_.”

They twisted the caps off at the same time, swigged the contents of the bottles as one. Clint tossed his aside as soon as he emptied it.

“Let’s get fucked up.”

Natasha snorted. “We’re not getting fucked up-”

“I want to.”

She held up a finger and continued. “-off of what’s in the mini-fridge.”

He frowned. “How many we have left?”

“Two.”

“Just the two?”

She nodded. “Just the two.”

His frown deepened. “Won’t even get a buzz that way.”

“Is it that important?”

“I want to.” 

Her gaze lingered out the window. “Get a buzz?”

“Get fucked up, Nat. Get fucked up.”

She blew out a sigh. “We’ve probably earned that much.”

“At least.”

“Clint.” She looked at him. “Will you be here when I get back?”

He settled onto the bed. “I’ll be here.”

\---

Finding a liquor store that was open at 3 AM proved very easy, and she supposed she had Japan’s salaryman culture to thank for that. A few of them stumbled past her right then, suits disheveled, ties askew, shoes in hand.

How did life just… go on that way?

Did they return to work right after it happened? Claim the good desks - the ones by the window or the exit - that they had never gotten before? Maybe take over their bosses’ jobs? Maybe take over the company?

Best not to dwell.

She returned to their hotel room with two six-packs of Asahi beer, a bottle of sake (when in Japan and so on), and a long-necked bottle with a flowery label proclaiming itself to be _’umeshu’_.

“Plum wine,” Clint said approvingly. “Good shit.”

She was grateful that he was still there. 

“So it’s good to see Japan’s alcohol industry is still thriving,” she said casually.

He shrugged. “Blame the salaryman culture.”

She wrinkled her nose at that. 

He watched her arrange the bottles on the desk. “Do we have any glasses?”

She snorted. “We drink from the bottle like heathens.”

“You forgot glasses?”

“Does this seem like the kind of motel that would provide them? We drink from the bottle,” she repeated, “like fucking heathens.”

“Like goddamn barbarians.” He nodded. “Rock on.”

They got fucked up. 

Turned up, sake could _fuck_ a person up, and fast. It tasted what she imagined turpentine might taste like, and at one point, Clint complained that she “bought the cheap shit,” but it did its job.

The plum wine went down smooth. They finished that in a few long gulps, passing the bottle back and forth like fucking heathens. Or goddamn barbarians. 

A few bottles into the Asahi, and they were sprawled on the bed, a pile of entangled limbs and beery breath.

“Wish you had bought drugs,” Clint murmured. “Like a fucking bucket of drugs.”

“An armload of drugs?” 

“A whole goddamn wheelbarrow of drugs.”

“Okay, well, first,” and she held up a finger, as if to prove she could still count, “I’m not sure where I’d buy a wheelbarrow at three in the morning.”

“At the wheelbarrow store, Nat.”

A frown flitted across her face. “Hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well, keep up.” He nudged her. “And second?”

“And second?”

“You said ‘first.’” He waved his hand back and forth, but a beer bottle was attached to the end of it and some of its contents sloshed onto both of them. “So there should be a ‘second’.”

Her frown deepened. “Hadn’t thought of that either.”

He burped long and low, bathing them both in the cloudy scent of Japanese booze.

“Charming.” She drained off the bottle and tossed it on the floor somewhere.

He copied the action, then grabbed two more bottles, flipped the caps off, and passed her one. “I’ve got a few more good ones in me. Drink up.”

“ _Na Zdorovie_ ” she murmured, mouth around the rim of the bottle.

“Bone apple teeth,” he returned.

They didn’t talk about anything important that night. Neither of them spilled the contents of their hearts, unburdened their guilty consciences, or experienced a dark night of the soul. They drank until there was nothing left to drink, then curled up in a sloppy tangle on the bed and slept until midday.

It was Natasha’s best sleep in five years. 

The next day, they were both badly, stupidly hungover, but Clint was still there and Natasha was grateful for that. They took turns in the shower, then pulled on the same clothing they had each arrived in. (She hadn’t bothered packing a spare change of clothes. Her intel had been too hot, and finding Clint had been more important than wasting time rooting through her underwear drawer.)

They found breakfast at a McDonald’s down the street. The menu was largely the same, and there was strange comfort in knowing some things hadn’t changed much.

“So your hair,” Clint said through a mouthful of sausage, egg, and cheese. His fingers grazed the fringes of her braid. “You’re rocking the Ginger Spice look.”

“And what about you?” She speared a forkful of lukewarm pancake. “Do we call you Mohawkeye now? Fauxhawkeye, even?” 

They loaded up on snacks and drinks, then boarded the Quinjet and headed back to New York.

“It’s been five years,” he said.

“Five years,” she echoed, slipping her hand into his.

They flew onward to meet whatever happened next.

**Author's Note:**

> I banged this out in 40 minutes immediately after watching Avengers: Endgame. Fuuuuck that movie was a goddamn emotional journey and I needed to write SOMETHING.
> 
> So here it is. The something.
> 
> Let me know what you thought of this or the movie or both. 
> 
> Dedicated to Firebirdscratches, who threw down the gauntlet (Infinity or otherwise) and challenged me to write something as soon as I saw the movie. So here it is. Challenge accepted and completed. I'm going to bed!
> 
> ETA: I went back and added nearly half the length of the original fic. Because why not?
> 
> ETA (7/6): Minor updates. Why not?


End file.
